The Following Account Is Absolutely True

So, at 5:08 a.m., I wake up to pee. I flip on the bathroom light, (silly me,) and one of the three 100 watt bulbs that hangs above my medicine cabinet explodes into a shower of shattered glass. Now I have to run and get my crocs (I only wear them in the house), plug in the tired old vacuum we inherited when we moved in (from my sister-in-law's "granny" in law), which has the shortest cord of any vacuum in history, and make sure every splinter of glass has gone with Elvis (left the building). I do just that. Mind you, I still have to pee, but now, so does Carrie. She gets HER crocs (she only wears them in the house too, I swear!) and shuffles into the dark bathroom. While she's peeing, I decide to put the vacuum away. When I pick it up from whence I'd leaned it, the canister, in an apparent show of sympathy with the bulb, forceably ejects, spewing dust, glass, and- inexplicably, peanut shells, all over the living room floor. Carrie says it must be something in my aura, and I search my Broca's brain for new and interesting curse words with which to experiment.
Through no small amount of therapy and gentle coaxing, I finally get Granny's vacuum to agree once more that it is, in fact, a vacuum, and clean up our now war torn living room. I still have to pee, and go to do exactly that, but first I don yellow gloves and flip the circuit breaker to make sure I don't get electrocuted as I surgically extract the root of the terrorist bulb from its socket. Carrie gives me the once over, says of my naked-but-for-yellow-rubber-gloves-and-black-crocs look, "You know, I'm certain there's a fetish for that somewhere if you google it", and helpfully shuffles back to bed. I meanwhile, replace the terrorist bulb with a new one, one of those twisty new bulbs which promise four hundred years of use and mercury poisoning if they break.
Job well done, I congratulate myself with a well earned pee, flush and get up to wash my hands. As I stand before the sink, I notice how bright the new bulb is. As I notice how bright the new bulb is, I glance in the mirror, and when I glance in the mirror, I see something stuck to my forehead. Is it dried blood? Had a kamikaze shard actually gotten through to its' target, missing my left eye by less than an inch, scarring me for life? As I lean closer to the mirror, it becomes apparent that it's not in fact dried blood at all, but a clump of dried tomato. "Where on Earth did I get dried tomato on my face?" My brain races through improbable scenarios until... Suddenly I remember last night's failed chili con queso operation, exploding salsa and all, and, as images of techni-color culinary misadventures splash across the movie screen of my mind, I make a decision: I'm going back to bed, and staying there until October.

Mizmor L'Avi (a new psalm- in progress)

I am running a race
for which there is no course
My feet
are insubstantial as dreams and
I'm running alone
Though the world stands by the side
they mostly do not cheer
but throw holes and rocks
instead before my feet.